


tricks (of the empire)

by finalizer



Category: Catalyst: A Rogue One Novel - James Luceno, Rogue One: A Star Wars Story (2016), Star Wars - All Media Types
Genre: Drunk Krennic, M/M, Sex, one-sided angsty pining
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-02-20
Updated: 2017-02-20
Packaged: 2018-09-24 23:30:49
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,238
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9791909
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/finalizer/pseuds/finalizer
Summary: "It's been a while since you gave in and fucked me. Don't you miss it? I do."





	

**Author's Note:**

> "tricks of the empire  
> make happy kids aim higher  
> higher up they wet fire  
> fools of the empire"  
> \- tove styrke, _borderline_
> 
> prompt by and dedicated to the lovely [luc](http://twitter.com/lucskywalks) ilysm  
>  

It’s not unlike watching one of his experiments go bad with thinly veiled fascination, Galen frozen in place and unable to do anything about it.

One moment he’s there, talking with his research associates, exchanging pleasantries and tidbits concerning the advancements he’s making in his work, the next he’s staring at the main entrance, eyes wide and disbelieving. 

The lights glimmer from the dimly lit chandeliers, from the crystal vases and silver platters carried by the waiting staff. It’s an event for the upper echelons, for those affluent or well enough connected to worm their way into the good graces of the galaxy’s finest. Galen, unable to tear his sight away from the door, had just barely made the cut due to his rising prominence amongst the innovative scientific communities. In a word, no place to fall short. 

Yet there he stands, watched warily by the uniformed security, a mess wrapped within an even greater mess — one Orson Krennic, fresh out of the Academy, and better yet, fresh out of a bar. 

His shirt torn in more than one place, dirty blonde hair completely out of sorts, falling over his face, eyes glazed over in a way they only got after a truly glorious armada of drinks, Krennic stumbles, bracing himself on the snow-white brilliance of a nearby pillar. 

It’s undeniable that every one of the gathered guests wants to stand out, make a superb impression, and Krennic succeeds by merely stepping inside. Not that he goes about it the right way.

The party doesn’t stop, the live music doesn’t squeal and falter like it would at the entrance of a dignified individual. Everything goes on: staff distributing drinks and hors d’oeuvres, ignoring the wreck that teeters inside. A dirty look or two doesn’t dissuade Krennic from dragging his gaze across the room, raking over the fields of gelled hair and ostentatious hairpieces. 

Those horrid eyes land on Galen, the blue depths piercing his chest in one fierce, twisting strike. His pupils dilate, he cracks a smile, and he advances. 

And all Galen can do is watch — as step by step, second by second, Krennic comes closer and threatens to wreck a carefully constructed balance.

Finally, he takes the last damning stride and stops at Galen’s side, peering up at him with questionable intention. He’s drunk out of his right mind, he reeks of it, it emanates from his very being in nauseating waves. And beneath it all, beneath the self-assuredness induced by the percentage in his veins, beneath the layers of emotion and doubt, is an insatiable hunger.

Galen tunes back in, the shrill drawl of a violin crescendo hauling him back to the party. His coworkers tentatively observe the newcomer with unbridled hesitancy — the kind of caution that borders on disgust. Galen can’t quite blame them, given the circumstances.

“Gentlemen,” comes a sickeningly familiar drawl, “ _Galen_.”

Galen bites the inside of his cheek to keep himself in check. A wretched, primal part of him wants to grab Krennic by what’s left of his shirt, tear him away from the crowd and slam him into a wall in the shadows, drinking the liquor from his lips like it’s rightfully his. The worst part — Krennic would let him.

Instead, he schools his tone, introduces his new friends to the walking disaster that’d once been his only form of human contact. “This — this is Orson — ” he pauses, trails off, and starts again. “ — _Lieutenant_ Orson Krennic. A former colleague of mine.” 

Krennic cracks a wry smile, no warmth whatsoever, and pointedly doesn’t offer his hand to shake; not that any of the gathered intellectuals would accept it. He doesn’t listen as Galen lists off the names of those beside him, rather stares at the single wisp of Galen’s hair escaping the heavy trap of pomade, at the fine lines of the pressed suit hugging all the right angles.

Galen feels the lingering stare before he sees it, prickling at him as it slides down his body. He feels it as he’d learned to feel it from across classrooms and corridors, from across the room on the occasions Krennic had managed to sneak into his friend’s dormitory in the middle of the night. 

 _Friend_. Too simple a word. 

Just like that, he makes up his mind. 

“Will you excuse us,” he offers, procuring an apologetic smile for his associates, “I think Orson and I need to have a talk.” 

Unwilling to cause a scene, he doesn’t grab Krennic by the collar of his rag of a shirt, as much as he’d love to. He knows there would be something exhilarating in exhibiting the raw power his mere existence holds over Krennic. Instead, he tugs at his upper arm, fingernails digging into vulnerable flesh, and steers Krennic away to an isolated corner beyond the pillars, past the main entrance and into a secluded hall. 

“This is not the place for showing up uninvited,” Galen hisses, the moment they’re alone, “looking like that. You’re practically dripping liquor on the carpets. I know you have no sense of decency, but you could get ahold of yourself for my sake, if it’s not too much work.”

Krennic stays silent, watching the expressions flicker over Galen’s face in quick strokes. The anger makes way for annoyance, which disappears in a single blink, revealing desire blatant enough to match his own. 

There’s only so much time they can spend apart before the rubber band stretches too far and they’re snapped back towards each other; like satellites circling the same moon, the same hungry black hole.

“No, of course it’s too much work for you. You can hardly last a day on your feet without swallowing down an entire bottle of something when the sun goes down. You’ll be the death of yourself. Your drive, your ambitions, your temporary crutches — you’ll fall apart.”

Krennic hums, a low sound in the back of his throat, and takes a wobbly step closer. He’s warm, and it radiates off him in tempting waves, drawing Galen closer despite his best intentions. The glint in Krennic’s eyes, the permanent sun-kissed glow of his skin, the simple knowledge that Galen could ask for anything and Krennic would break his neck getting it done — it’s overwhelming to say the least.

“I’m doing just fine,” Krennic says finally, stringing together the first coherent sentence since his initial one-word introductions. “Don’t you worry your beautiful fucking brain about me.”

The alcohol slurs the edges of his words, each swimming seamlessly into the next, creating a relatively intelligible piece.

Galen can’t stop his heart from lurching into his throat. Krennic holds an unwavering influence over him, as he does over Krennic. It’s a mutually destructive power, that Krennic can’t escape, and Galen finds himself drawn to despite the warnings and alarm bells going off in his head each time Krennic gives him _that_ _look_ from under thick lashes.

“What is it you want, Orson?”

Krennic lifts his hands, palms up, and drags his fingertips over the seams on either side of Galen’s dress uniform. It’s more dressy than official, ordered and tailored specifically for the event by whichever company seeks to gain connections with potential buyers. Clean, raw energy has no small list of investors, yet Galen can tell that it’s not that that’s so tantalizing to Krennic. He cares far more for the man beneath the suit than the visage itself.

Krennic had no doubt stumbled out of a lowlife bar, tripped and tumbled his way into a government event for the sole purpose of seeing Galen. Plain as day. Drunk off his ass, and as if that isn’t enough of a thrill, he wants — _needs_ — more.

Krennic’s fingers trail over the pressed collar, over the light stubble defining the corners of Galen’s jawline. It’s a path he’s memorized all too well. Then, he sags, drooping forward into Galen’s arms so suddenly Galen nearly fails to steady him. Strong arms clutch Krennic’s waist as his head drops down on Galen’s shoulder, Krennic swinging his arms up and around Galen’s neck. He burrows closer like a sleepy, clinging child, and Galen curses himself for the way his body instinctively reacts. It’s all muscle memory, plain and simple — the flesh remembers what it wants.

He wants to push Krennic away — gentle yet stern — before one thing leads to another. Disgust washes over him as he fails to resist his hammering heart, the rush of tingling heat. He knows he ought not to take advantage like this, with Krennic drunk and susceptible, but he knows well enough what Krennic wants and what Krennic needs, and he knows just how to give it to him. He knows he’s the only one who can.

It’s the desperate whisper that does it.

“It’s been a while since you gave in and fucked me. Don’t you miss it? I do.”

Galen’s resolve snaps like a twig, all the blood in his body rushing downwards, his grip on Krennic’s waist harsh enough to bruise. He tightens his hold and shoves Krennic hard against the nearest wall, reveling in the widening of those blue eyes, glazed over and hungry, as Krennic’s back meets the concrete with a dull thud. Krennic’s victorious grin speaks volumes — he’d come to tease, to taunt, to whisper sweet nothings and draw goosebumps across flesh until Galen gave in, as he always did. 

Galen pulls his hands to himself, reaching out a split second later to fist his fingers into the worn fabric of Krennic’s shirt, tugging him down the hall. He maneuvers him into the bathroom, pushing him hard into the plunging dark as he locks the door behind the two of them. It’d be something else entirely to leave the door untouched, ajar, to add the rush of possibility of someone — _anyone_ — walking inside. But it’s not what either of them wants. What they need, deep down and all-consuming, is release. From anger, from abandonment, from the chaotic thoughts and the mess the whole damn galaxy’s becoming. 

Fast and instinctive, like a clenched fist shattering glass without the additional mess of blood. Galen turns and spins Krennic around, away from him, so he doesn’t have to see the narcotizing eyes, the way Krennic’s bottom lip disappears between his teeth and he wordlessly beckons him closer.

Krennic growls as he’s bent over the sink, hardly managing to break his fall with his hands before he hits the cold countertop. But it’s what he wants — there’s something to be said for using any means necessary. Galen doesn’t fuss around with pointless caresses and teeth on skin, he doesn’t kiss him, doesn’t offer any semblance of comfort. And Krennic — desperate as he is for anything resembling Galen’s affections — bites down the disappointment, swallows it along with the visceral groan that pushes past his lips as Galen kicks his legs apart, pressing him into the edge of the counter, doubling the pressure.

Fabric rustles behind him, metal clinks against metal as buckles are undone, and Krennic leans backward into empty air, desperate for friction, for something to ease the strain. Galen stops him with his free hand, pushing him back in his place. There’s no question who has the upper hand, and Krennic can tell Galen will do anything to keep it, to prevent things from escalating beyond dispassionate. 

“You’re teasing,” he teases, because it’s easy to goad Galen into hurrying up, into shoving Krennic forward harder and rougher, pulling his trousers down with little preamble. 

Galen reaches around to Krennic’s front pocket, now hanging loosely around his thighs, and isn’t at all surprised to find the small bottle of lube. _Slut_.

“Don’t flatter yourself,” Galen says absentmindedly. He doesn’t care for Krennic’s delusions. He doesn’t want to care for how things used to be. He hates that he still wants Krennic, that he needs this as much as he does.

He works two fingers inside before Krennic can fire back a pathetically witty response, leaving him gasping at the sudden intrusion. He doesn’t pull away, rather rocks back on Galen’s hand, wanting more.

Galen doesn’t put it past Krennic to have worked himself open in the back seat of a transport on his way here. No morals, no shame, no inhibitions. 

When Krennic speaks again, the nonchalant humor is gone from his tone. “Stop playing around, Galen, and fuck me.”

There’s no two ways to interpret the words: he’d come prepared, with one thing in mind and every intention of wrapping Galen around his finger, just like old times.

Galen says nothing and adds a third, crooking his fingers, listening to Krennic’s breathing falter, watching his knuckles turn stone white as he grips the counter for sheer lack of contact. Krennic may own him, irrevocably, but Galen doesn’t doubt that his hold over Krennic exceeds that power entirely . Krennic hisses through clenched teeth and drops his head, grumbling incoherent pleas for Galen to hurry, to stop toying with him. 

And Galen would be lying if he said he didn’t enjoy it.

He withdraws his fingers, drawing a sharp intake of breath from Krennic — a watery almost-sob — and positions himself at his entrance, forgoing the lube he’d earlier tossed to the side. No words of warning, no cautious questions, he pushes his entire length inside, not even taking the time to draw out the process to an agonizing tempo, to bring Krennic to desperate tears. It’s always encouraging, witnessing the effect he has on Krennic, but there’s only so much he himself can take before he snaps.

Krennic doesn’t shout, doesn’t protest, instead his mouth hangs open in a silent gasp. He relinquishes his iron grip on the countertop, bringing the hand he isn’t leaning on to rest against the mirror, shaking palm against the glass. He uses that leverage, pushes back in a voiceless attempt to get Galen to _move_. 

And he does. It’s impersonal, strictly physical, Galen tells himself, as his thrusts grow more erratic, as his breath shallows and Krennic’s moans become too much to keep contained behind grinding teeth. The mirror squeaks as Krennic tries to keep his hold, as his palms grow sweaty beneath the slippery glass. Galen’s hand tenses on Krennic’s waist, fingers pressing in hard, deep enough to mark his property. He doesn’t remember grasping at Krennic, doesn’t remember at which point _no contact_ morphed into this overpowering, insatiable pull. 

Krennic’s voice breaks over a string of curses, interwoven with gasps and a litany of Galen’s name, falling over and over from his lips.

In a single second, all rational thought disperses, and Galen leans forward, pressing flat against Krennic, feeling each jolt, each shiver breaking past his defenses. The warmth blinds the part of his mind that still cares about keeping up appearances, about pretending that he doesn’t crave this touch as much as Krennic does. Bracing one hand against Krennic’s hip, he brings the other one up, laces his fingers with Krennic’s, pushing against the smudged mirror with such force it groans under their weight and threatens to shatter. _How ironic it would be, if the night did end in blood after all._

His name still reverbs around the small room, Krennic’s gasps mingling with his desperate begging, debasing himself to ask for release. And Galen — too far gone to refuse — brings his teeth to Krennic’s neck, biting at the soft flesh, mouthing the damned sweet nothings he’d long since promised himself to suffocate in the recesses of his mind.

Krennic comes with an aching groan, untouched, spilling in strokes across the counter, tensing and going limp all at once underneath Galen. That’s all it takes for Galen to follow suit. He doesn’t bother to pull out, relishes in the single, thoroughly broken, “ _Fuck_ ,” passing through Krennic’s lips, unbidden. 

He slumps down for a brief minute, Krennic struggling to support both their weights on trembling arms. It’s quiet then, almost tranquil, despite the untoward circumstances. 

“Wasn’t so bad,” Krennic says then, evidently unable to keep his big mouth shut, and refrain from ruining a half-decent moment. “Was it?”

Galen screws his eyes shut and pushes off him, drawing himself out and cleaning up with a disposable hand towel. The bathroom situation might have been impromptu, but he appreciates the convenient commodities. Krennic suppresses a displeased grunt at being left empty so suddenly, then seems to be hit with a change of heart, and turns to face Galen. 

“Am I under the wrong impression, or did you actually seem to enjoy that last bit?”

Galen shoots down the accusation. “You’re drunk.”

“ _Was_ drunk,” Krennic corrects him, failing to conceal how awfully his words still slur together. “You worked your magic. Why’re you pretending you don’t want this? Why’re you avoiding me all the time?”

Galen redoes his belt and pulls the excess through the loop on his trousers — creased, worn, but blessedly clean. Small mercies.

“We can talk about this later. You need to get home before you throw up all over the banquet hall.”

Krennic pouts, bottom lip curling out in displeasure. “Galen. I can hold my drink. So, you can — you can be honest with me.”

“I am being honest. You _are_ piss drunk. And we _can_ talk about this at another time. You know how to reach me, preferably without showing up uninvited to a state affair.”

Krennic, disheveled and untucked, takes a wobbling step closer, looking up at Galen with a pained intensity.

“You don’t love me anymore.”

The statement jolts something unwanted in Galen’s chest — the softness of Krennic’s tone, the sheer conviction with which the words leave his lips, despite the alcohol-induced tinge to his words. Galen wants to say he doesn’t, wants to stop stringing Krennic along, and at the same time can’t quite force the sentiment out. He doesn’t want to revert to how it used to be — the codependent push and pull with no possible outcome that favored them both. Yet, he doesn’t want to forget, doesn't want to leave it in the past so carelessly. That small part of him doesn’t want to break Krennic’s heart. 

So he says nothing; simply watches, detached, as Krennic’s lips twitch up in a broken parody of a smile, as he closes the small distance between them and presses a ghost of a kiss over Galen’s lips. 

He lowers himself back down from his toes and takes to cleaning up. Galen stands inhumanly still, fingers wringing in and out of fists at his sides. He hardy notices when Krennic pushes past him, as the click of the lock echoes around the otherwise empty room. 

“You know,” Krennic says, before he disappears back into the lurid lights of the party, “maybe I am too fucking drunk, to let you walk all over me like this, and do nothing about it. Just letting you use me, letting you pretend like it’s nothing.” He pauses, leveling Galen with a look that drips with genuine sincerity. “Let me know when you’re done lying to yourself.”

Without another word, he’s gone, and Galen is left with everything back in order, the way he wants it — the way he _thinks_ he wants it. It’s like Krennic hadn’t showed up to begin with, hadn’t toppled the delicate balance Galen tried to built atop a field of thinly veiled delusions.

There were ties that couldn't be broken, yet Galen kept tearing at the thread, trying to free himself before it was too late to even consider turning back. 

 

**Author's Note:**

> whoops that was depressing
> 
>  
> 
> [tweet me](http://twitter.com/finaIizer)


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